Poem of the week

They wander the streets with me, searching
for a steering wheel, a trolley, a pram, a hand.

I give them the edge of my scarf, the belt
on my coat, the button on my lapel, stuff them
in my pockets to burrow in the debris of home

receipts from that new old-fashioned sweet shop
wet wipes used for sticky fingers or muddy hands 
tags from new toys, tickets, coins. But it is no use.

Skin cracked, knuckles raw, fingertips barbed
like fishhooks from bottles plunged and scrubbed
in scalding water, my hands will not rest until

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